Buggered Omens
by AmoreBlack
Summary: The end of the world is afoot and the only ones who could stop it are two silly characters pretending to be the world's icon of good and evil. One of them is an ex-incubus, which makes things even worse. We're doomed. A Hetalia/Good Omens Crossover fic!
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Buggered Omens (oh boy) - a Hetalia/Good Omens crossover  
**Author:** Amoreblack  
**Rating:** T  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):**France, England, Sweden, Finland, Meta- I mean Russia, and mentions of Germany and ; hints of France/England (or England/France, really) as Francis continually tries to seduce the other, faint Sweden/Finland  
**Warnings:** Theological theme involving angels, demons, and God (this is all done for the sake of good humor, staying loyal to the style of Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Gaiman); humor of the perverted kind (Francis' fault)  
**Summary:** Replacing the characters of Good Omens with our beloved cast in Hetalia!_The end of the world is afoot and the only ones who could stop it are two silly characters pretending to be the world's icon of good and evil (one of them is an ex-incubus, which makes things even worse), a horseperson with father/son issues, and many other characters who have their own hairbrained ideas on how to create world peace or whatever. We're all doomed._  
**A/N:** I tried to write it in a way that the reader would go along the whole tale, even if they haven't read Good Omens :)  
**Time Frame:**None (Alternate Universe)

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**Dramatis Personae**

_**? **__(?) as God__  
__**Ivan**__ (or Russia) as Metatron__  
__**Arthur Kirkland**__ (or England) as Aziraphale__  
__**Francis Bonnefoy**__ (or France) as Crowley__  
__**Ludwig**__(or Germany) as Hastur__  
__**Feliciano**__(or North Italy) as Ligur_

_**Bernard**__(or Sweden) as a Demon Lord__  
__**Tino**__(or Finland) as the Lord's Wife (NOT)_

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_**The Beginning of the Story Regarding the Omniscient Beings excluding **_**The **_**Beginning **_**Beginning **_**where Arthur and Francis were first put onto Earth for Part-time security reasons...**_**__**

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Francis' rose tinted glasses reflected Arthur's dismissive gaze. He scowled. They had been at it for hours now, and while Arthur's hands were busy cleaning the dust off his precious collection of rare and valuable books, propped right next to him in heaps and mounds for its yearly cleaning -- literature which he took great pains in collecting ever since the birth of time and the written word, and was now trying to sell as a part-time book dealer (well, _kind _of trying to sell them) -- Francis was getting restless. And bored. A bored Francis was a dark force to be reckoned with, indeed. His whining could even compare to the wails of the damned in hell whenever the demon Cthulthu handed a fellow named Zan or something a viol(1).

"But you've scared off five visitors ever since I arrived, _cheri _–" he moaned.

"Six. Six visitors. And don't you 'cheri' me you wannabe French twat, it'll be another hundred years before I actually go to a pub with you." Arthur snapped, obviously caring more about his books than Francis' pathetic puppy dog expression. With good reason, he thought.

The French man (somewhat) was propped, almost collapsed upon Arthur's cashier desk, dust failing to dirty his expensive Givenchy suit. After looking at Francis in these sorts of dusty conditions, you'd wonder if these beings ever washed their hands before a meal. But it was the subject of 'meals' as the reason why both of them were having this little spat in the first place.

"But that traditional English restaurant," Francis said as if recalling a nightmare, "Mon di-, why anybody would call any sort of dish 'Spotted Dick' I have no idea."

"Francis, you are clearly pushing your luck. I didn't tell you to wait on me for hours, whining about how sorry you were when you spat out half of the meal – "

"It was disgusting! Worse than your crumpets. My teeth almost fell out for pity's sake."

"And set the maître d's blessed toupee on fire."

Francis scoffed, "He was clearly provoking me by sending you flowers."

Arthur thwacked the other's forehead with a hardbound copy of _'The Sunneshayn in Russia's Harym'_, which must have been originally from Francis, since Arthur would never admit to owning something as lewd as this sort of literature, "It was a complementary gift." He said, as if speaking to a skulking child, "I'm one of their valued customers, you twit."

"You know, I wonder about that." The other said in a matter-of-fact kind of way, hopping with a flourish to sit on Arthur's cashier table and crossing his legs righteously, "You have no taste in food at all. That is the last time you send us off to those 'traditional', local types of restaurants."

"No. Might as well be our last outi- meeting _ever_." a whole legion of books that might have weighed a ton was now settled in Arthur's arms comfortably without falling off or teetering, with the way some of the hardbound tipped near the edge, "Don't even think about presenting me that ridiculously expensive wine as an apology for trying to_apologize_."

Despite how hopeless the situation seemed for him, Francis' face darkened with one of his charming smiles, fingers tapping thoughtful beats on the desk. He wasn't surprised that Arthur knew exactly what he would do, them being in a sort of partnership since they were both placed on Earth for the same purpose. He wasn't an angel (far from it in fact), and he had perfected the art of pissing off his friend every time whenever he felt like it. Which prompted him to perfect the art of successfully charming the pants out of Arthur as well.

Figuratively, of course, as he still does not know how to get Arthur and his pants away from each other.

"Oh? You mean this?" Francis' voice was soft and goading, almost challenging and arrogant as a bottle appeared in his hands out of thin air. Bright and full and obviously very, very expensive, "Clos des Papes Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Exactly the same bottle that we had last year." He commented smoothly.

Arthur could see his resolve cracking through his reflection in Francis' glasses. His mouth watered, but he held himself from accepting by deepening the scowl on his face. One of the books gave a slight shudder, almost falling off the top of the heap. "You think you'd tempt me that easily, Francis?"

The other being chuckled, eyebrow raised in that cocky manner of his, "I am a master of temptation, if I do say so myself." Francis jiggled the bottle inches in front of Arthur's face, letting the liquid inside flutter. _And I am a master when it comes to tempting you, ma petite ange._

Arthur hadn't had a chance in the first place once he found himself in Francis'_Renault4CV_ (that Arthur had once told Francis was obviously a sad rip off of the Beetle, of which the demon had cheerfully reminded Arthur of his success in World War II), and he clearly voiced his frustration while Francis drove them to one of his classy French restaurants. Why did he try to refuse in the first place when he knew this was where he'd end up later on? He was a Principality! The Guardian Angel of the East gate who once had a valiant unicorn for his steed (although truth be told his fellow angels thought of him daft after he tried to introduce Shinysparkle).

Arthur groaned, slapping a palm on his forehead; his shoulders slumping as if it held the weight of God's gaze. Which it did, sort of. "I can't believe this."

"Mhm."

"One of these days, Francis Aleister Bonnefoy (2), you'll end up making me fall."

"No I won't. Unless you're talking about my silk bed sheets." Arthur didn't seem to hear that mumbled quip (or he refused to). Instead he continued to moan:

"I'd lose all the feathers from my wings."

"Non. You won't."

"And have the ground swallow me up in one of those ridiculous looking circles of hell… probably the third."(3) he was kneading his forehead with his fingers now, tips white from the pressure.

"… I have perfectly fine, white, pristine, and well groomed wings, thank you very much. Unlike yours."

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur said, affronted,

"Why don't you groom them once in a while? And they say Demon's wings were black,_merde_..." the demon scoffed,

"Well vanity might as well be the fault that could turn me into a bloody demon!"

"You won't fall, mon ange," Francis gleamed almost in a cat-like kind of way "Those devils shall ravage you with your angelic sexiness, after all, and I can't have that." Arthur choked on his own spit. Well he definitely heard him this time. "Besides, you're one of the best things that had ever happened in Heaven."

"If not for our Arrangement, might I remind you? If the Metatron hears about this…" Arthur shivered at the thought. What if the Metatron did hear about his constant slipping toward temptation? Such as eating chocolate and fancy dining…?

And piracy. Arthur cringed, _That dam- blessed demon Antonio and his tomatoes._He had enough of the Metatron's shadowed smiles and 'kolkolkolk's', _please_ and _thank you_.

"Mon ange," Francis sighed, "We go through this every time, and every time you end up unconvinced. Need I remind you about the _Miracle of 1764_?"

"I turned a perverted man with incestuous tendencies into a child who has a chest groping problem. Brilliant."

"How about the time when you took in a poor, defenseless orphan – "

"Which one? The one that you tried to molest?"

"Ohoho~ I beg you remember that I tried to molest all of them..."

"Who did you mean, then? _Alfred_?" that seemed to dampen Arthur's mood even more, and he thwacked the back of Francis' head, unfitting a benevolent Angel of God of his stature, "That cost me a lot of trouble from the higher Ups as well, wannabe French bastard." Francis was clearly not good when it came to reassuring a friend. Why wasn't Arthur surprised…

"Well how should I know that turning him immortal would drive him insane, mon ange?"

The rest of the drive were spent arguing about who was responsible for toupees, and Arthur had to save a family of ducks from being run over by Francis' beloved Renault. Later on, right when Arthur was wondering if his companion was just driving around for fun, Francis had them listen to Erik Satie's most famous compositions, and one with the three tenors with La Traviata's _'Libiamo ne' Lieti Calici'_, which Arthur had once been overly fond of in their days during the late nineteenth century. Both albums, however, sounded too much like Right Said Fred's 'I'm Too Sexy' in endless replay.

It was a bit of a faulty bug in Francis' car after he enchanted his Renault to gain consciousness where every album he ever bought for his Renault would inexplicably turn into a Right Said Fred album with only one song. A bug that he had yet to fix. The reasons were widely unknown to Arthur, but he did have an inkling about what the pansexual ex-incubus does to his car. Arthur didn't like the dashboard, especially.

"I don't even know why you bother buying all these tapes, and all that comes out is this- this vulgar rubbish that I know your side helped become famous."

Francis had merely gave him one of his hearty laughs and a rather heated stare, which reminded Arthur that Francis might end up violating him later on once he was too drunk to care.

Arthur moaned, "I think I'm doomed to fall, after all."

Indeed. His only friend was a horny demon with arousal problems. Charming.

Angels and demons. These two could be used as references for the two protagonists of this tale. Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy. Heaven and hell. Both beings had been stuck with each other ever since the creation of the world. Of course, during the time of Adam and Eve their companionship was almost nonexistent, but was more of a bitter reminder for both angel and demon of why they were working to topple the opposite side of the war in the first place. Their apparent hatred for each other was the reason why they were both surprised at how the _Arrangement _had worked out well enough for them in the end.

The Arrangement was an unspoken, but otherwise agreed and shook upon pact that both Arthur and Francis formed when they found out that human influence had given them a connection, spanning from human comedy (such as limericks), human tastes, human fashion, human food (maybe not), and especially alcohol and wine. Occasionally Francis would rebuke Arthur's supernatural claims and asked him once why an angel like him believed in pixies in the first place. Arthur's fellow angels would only ask what a leprechaun was and if it gave presents to little children.

And occasionally, they would discuss with fervor which artists were the best during the Renaissance, and throughout the following centuries; which composers, and who influenced who (it was a common fact between the two that Arthur had Satie and his minimalism, while Francis had Marquis de Sade and his literature). It was simply a realization that their fellow angels and demons who were all snuggled up in their respective places and ranks in Heaven and Hell were clueless toward the ways of mortals. For both Arthur and Francis, well, they required this sort of knowledge in order to successfully influence humans toward the side of good and evil respectively.

It was a rather keen agreement which prompted them to have meetings in order to recount who did who, and what had happened afterwards in order to balance out the light and dark of the world. In a nutshell: they were both going under the noses of their bosses in favor of making things a little bit easier. For the world and for both of them. Francis revelled in the fact that he hadn't had his glasses ruined since five-hundred years ago. And Arthur was just glad the demon didn't try to burn his beloved books anymore.

They had the sort of meetings where they spent hours being drunk off their rockers, held six times every week when Francis didn't have his beloved thirty-six hour beauty sleep in his own home in France.

This was clearly one of those days.

Well, not really.

It was in the middle of the night when both of them found themselves draped all over each other, pissed above all accounts, especially when Francis ended up making out with his shiny Louis Vuitton shoe earlier, and Arthur had to distract him with cherry pie. The angel was guffawing quite loudly, sometimes crying about a boy named 'Alfred' and how he had betrayed him for hamburgers, which nobody seemed to hear at all or bothered to call the police for in order to arrest both of these 'men' for disruptive behavior in a popular posh restaurant.

"He didn' listen, you know? He jus' din' listen." Arthur said, taking another sip from his glass. Apparently being drunk gave him a sort of silly cockney accent which Arthur would later on deny, "Bacon was all 'Oh no no no no no'," he wagged a tipsy finger in front of Francis' drunken, grinning face, "He was all 'the fowl this' and 'snow that' and 'science' whatever. Bloody daft…"

"Your side's responsible for science, ange. Ruined the plague and all."

"Bacon froze his bloody bits to death, that's what. If it wer'nt for science we'd still have Bacon."

"That was like 1600s, Ange. I loved that century, though. Lovely dresses... contemplated my pretty pretty figure~" he giggled and made a sort of sound in his throat that was unfitting for a demon,

"We'd still have _Bacon_."

"And I still say otterpops lay eggs."

"You mean ducks." Arthur grabbed a bottle and tipped its contents in his throat.

"Those mammals with the beaks. They have quite the sexual appetite. Like elephants."

"They don't lay eggs, Francis."

"They have stingers, too... _hurr_" Francis chuckled in that perverted way of his.

"Stingers don't bloody lay eggs, you gay tart..."

… of which both of them promptly let their foreheads fall on the dinner table with a dull thud, the cutlery and whole plates of Devil's Cake, tacos, Italian and Chinese food around them shuddering. Demon and Angel were both quite enjoying the silence, and the way everything seemed to do 180 degree dances before their glazed eyes...

FRANCIS...

And thanks to their (Francis', actually) divine (or demonic) intervention, the owners of the restaurant left them both alone, even long after their customers left and they closed the restaurant.

FRANCIS.

"Hm?" Francis stirred, almost recovering from his drunken stupor, a thin thread of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth.

FRANCIS. YOUR LORD CALLS UPON YOU.

Arthur's head shot up from the table after hearing the rather doom-like disembodied voice, "Whu that?"

FRANCIS. YOU BETTER NOT BE SHIRKING YOUR DUTIES…

Francis and Arthur looked at each other, their eyes larger than those desert rolls they had for appetizers, and they forced themselves out of their drunkenness not a microsecond later (one of the positive sides to being an angel and demon).

"Yes, Seigneur?" Francis' voice almost squeaked, staring at the radio right next to their table which had been playing a nice rendition of Carl Orff's 'O Fortuna', which was most befitting of their current situation. The voice from the radio boomed:

BERNARD, BASTARD SON OF DAGON, HUSBAND OF THE DEMON TINO.

I AM NOT YOUR WIFE!

LORD OF THE ONCE FEARED WARRIORS, THE MIGHTY PHOENICIANS…

"Oui, mon Seigneur?"

YOU HAVE RESPONSIBILITY, FRANCIS. WE ARE ALL COUNTING ON YOU.

Arthur and Francis both looked at each other, confusion etched on their expressions, especially Francis' who looked as if he had swallowed a whole starter course of Arthur's cooking. Francis hadn't forgotten about one of his missions, did he? He must have, since he usually reported everything that Hell had ever planned to his enemy and all.

"S-S-Seigneur… th- there was this child, you see."

According to Francis' grimace… yes, the said angel concluded, he forgot.

UNFORGIVABLE, FRANCIS.

"It was tempting. I was wearing a stolen nun's clothing…"(4)

"What?" Arthur gasped, trying to keep his voice inaudible, "I thought you said you left the child alone?"

Francis shrugged sheepishly.

_"You pedophile~!"_

WE ALL KNOW HOW HARD WORKING YOU ARE, FRANCIS…

Arthur snorted.

BUT OUR TIME IS NOW. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO MEET LUDWIG AND FELICIANO HOURS AGO.

"I'll be there, Seigneur."

I AM MOST DISAPPOINTED IN YOU, FRANCIS.

"I'm sorry. _Si' vous plait_... please do forgive this little demon." Arthur almost wanted to wring Francis' neck after hearing the other sob with that sort of naughty and submissive look on his face. He didn't doubt for a second that Francis must have laid with this Bernard character once during his time in Hell as an incubus. Manslut. And with a married demon, too.

_Can demons even get married?_ Arthur thought.

WE FORGIVE YOU, FRANCIS, OF COURSE WE DO.

"Why thank you mon Seigneur." he sobbed. Francis' teary face disappeared, however, and shifted to that of a lusty French maiden with an unwrapped lollipop in hand. You knew what he would do to it, and he had a feeling that perhaps the demon Bernard anticipated it.

IS THAT FRANCIS IN THE TELEFONE AGAIN, BERNARD?

STRICTLY WORK RELATED ISSUES, M'DEAR.

Arthur kicked Francis under the table, his angel senses catching upcoming subjects related to marital issues and Francis.

"Nghr- I'll be…" the blond demon glared at the angel principality and returned the kick almost as strongly, "I'll be there, Seigneur." How Francis managed to make that sound even slightly lustful while he was continually kicking his leg was beyond him.

"Will you stop kicking me?!"

Francis jumped up in shock and forced his hands on Arthur's mouth, looking around the dark, empty restaurant cautiously, "Mon seigneur?"

Nobody replied.

"Seigneur? Are you teasing me – ah… once more?"

Still nothing.

Livid, Arthur forced Francis' hands off his face and stood up, "Go off now and find out what it is. It'd be a fine day in Hel- Hea- the blessed world until I get out of your side's loop."

"But we were having so much fun, ange~"

"You moron, I still need to report to the higher-Ups about this."

"Don't you want me to drop you off to your house?" The suggestive tone in Francis' voice and that dark grin of his had Arthur teetering out of the restaurant in no time.

"Get back to work," Arthur, flabbergasted, hastened putting on his coat and ran through the door, "And quit trying to tempt me, demon!"

After Arthur left Francis to his devices and thoughts, the demon sat back on his chair with a huff, took a last winding gulp of wine, and set off to meet the two dynamic lurkers amongst graveyards. Eyeglasses glowing in the dark, Francis sighed when he realized that the bad feeling he thought he had been imagining earlier was now tenfold pulsating in the pit of his stomach.

All because of sausage obsessive compulsive and pasta boy's sudden desire to do business with him.

And he _still _had a bad feeling about this.

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**A/N:** HOGODTHEHORROR!

Edited!

EDITED AGAIN. (final edit this time. i hope.)

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**Notes:**

(1) Please refer to H.P. Lovecraft's short story: The Music of Erich Zahnn. Basically whenever Erich Zahnn plays the viol on his own, it results in a cacophony of strange music which, along with the protagonist, hurled them into some sort of alternate dimension of darkness. Or something. It's been a while since I read this XD

(2) Francis Aleister Bonnefoy - a slight nod toward Crowley in Good Omens, of which Crowley was named after the occultist and writer Aleister Crowley, named 'the most evil man in the world'.

(3) The third circle in hell, according to Dante Aleghieri, was The Gluttonous. Since that's where Francis was taking Arthur, I thought it was well placed :D

(4) You guys wouldn't even _want_ to know what Francis told the boy (or Sealand) XD

And for those of you who doesn't understand Arthur's _Miracle of 1764_, that's actually Korea being turned into a child in one of Hetalia's strips XD I thought that was awesome since Arthur_was_ wearing an angel costume and all :3

Please enjoy the read, review, and don't hesitate to correct me in any mistake that I had made! Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Buggered Omens - Part II of Chapter II  
**Author:** The Alchemist of Bing  
**Rating:** T  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Germany, North Italy, France, mentions of England, Sweden, and a baby whose identity I will reveal later on; slight (or nonexistent) and England/France  
**Warnings:** Theological theme involving angels, demons, and God (this is all done for the sake of good humor, staying loyal to the style of Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Gaiman); mentions of activities in hell, skewering, and cleaning duty  
**Summary:** Replacing the characters of Good Omens with our beloved cast in Hetalia! _The end of the world is afoot and the only ones who could stop it are two silly characters pretending to be the world's icon of good and evil (one of them is an ex-incubus, which makes things even worse), a horseperson with father/son issues, and many other characters who have their own hairbrained ideas on how to create world peace or whatever. We're all doomed._  
**A/N:** More information about the inner-workings of hell. And their names, too.  
**Time Frame: **Alternate Universe; but the literal time frame here is the late 20th century or later

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_**Part I of Chapter II**_

_(Of which the story itself begins a hundred years or so earlier from the present, and there is a significant foreshadowing)_

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_

It was common knowledge that all humans were destined to die when their souls croaked; when Death swings his mighty sword to the core of your soul and pulls it out, dragging it to the scales of life where mortal sins were decided (1).

The year was 1666, and Feliks Lukasiewicz knew he was going to die.

Well not today – but Feliks knew that he would die of fire on the witch's stake, only to be reborn again to a place where he truly belonged. He knows this because he had seen it. Visions which came in bits and pieces related to his own death.

For some, they would try to escape it; for some, they would try to understand the meaning of life, write poetry that damn their own useless existence and blame God in general – those sorts of plots one would see in modern drama television and all, but Feliks was different. He knew the improbability of human intervention when it came to the inevitable. Things were already written in, or something like that. But complicated cosmic workings aside, he was actually looking forward to his death. And boy did he have some serious questions ready for that meddling Bastard.

Feliks Lukasiewicz could see into the future.

But just like Agammemnon's daughter who was cursed by the same misfortune, Feliks also had his own share of problems to deal with. It wasn't because everybody knew his predictions were a hundred and one percent accurate or fake, on the contrary. In fact he could have become one of the most famous seers in human history with how accurate his predictions were, but there were two things that stopped his rise to prophecie stardom: he was the kind of gifted individual who shared his knowledge in spoken gibberish that could put Confucius to shame; secondly – he knew that he lived in a century where people liked bonfires, burning, and witches burning in bonfires

Although Feliks didn't quite understand why people would assume that he was a witch. It was beyond him, really, since he was definitely a man through and through. He simply liked wearing maidens' dresses. They were more comfortable compared to the constant pinching of male trousers and all. It was also airy and free, and he had become quite attached to corsets and petticoats… perhaps this was the reason why the villages he lived in resented him so?

It was precisely June 6, 1666 and Feliks had just finished tending to his garden flowers and vegetables. Nothing particularly important would happen on this day, since the boy that would convince him to write his prophecies down and try to publish it would arrive in the afternoon, therefore he had enough time to bake pastries and ready the rest of the snacks and drinks that growing young men usually liked. He knew the boy liked apple pies.

Precisely seven minutes later, Feliks put on his clean boots, fluffed his petticoat and skirt, and trotted towards the busy village market after deciding that he needed more milk and eggs.

His run through the market went on for three hours. It had been longer than necessary because of the village witchfinders' several (failed) attempts to stone him and run him through with their pitchforks and muskets (2), but Feliks managed to ready the apple pie, other pastries, and milk before he went to stand outside near his cottage door.

Precisely a second after he closed said door, a flintlock musket pressed against his chest with a voice telling him that he was about to die today.

Feliks sighed. _**"Lyke, ye muste be totalle spente fromme alle those UVs, dude."**__**(3)**_

The young man blinked. He was sure that the delivered threat that his father had told him to say was clear and precise. Did he stutter? Did the witch misunderstand? And instead of cowering as the boy thought he would, Feliks laid a hand on his hip, letting his shoulders droop while he regarded him with a heated glare. For some reason the 'witch' reminded him of his own mother.

_**"Hadde ye notte herd me at alle, wytch?"**_ The boy started, his anger making him push the musket hard against his chest again (for he couldn't bear another caning from his old man),_** "I sayd:"**_

"_**And… oh. Mye. God. Lyke, 'tis totalle hotte oute heire. Quitt spazzine for a sec ande, lyke, gette in the house or somethinge... 'cus I, lyke, totalle fixed you up som mondoe awesome apple pye. Fore reals… you'd, lyke, totalle love yt."**_The fast-talking man said, his last sentence in a high pitched, singsong voice, and he laughed and winked at him but the boy couldn't say anything since his mouth was too occupied doing dumb fish expressions,_** "I, lyke, almost scarfed yt alle downe myselfe, y'knowe…, but I was lyke, 'Thate poor goode childe'. And, lyke… I totalle felt soe sure thatt you'd digge mye cookine. Oh mye God. You'd absolutely. Mondoe. Love it~" **_

Feliks gave him a sunny smile and flipped his straw colored hair out of his face with a graceful flourish of his head, before he turned his back to the boy to open his cottage door.

Which seemed to emit a nice, heavenly scent of apple pie.

The boy made a strange sound in his throat, musket still pointed at Feliks, though it was stock still and limp in his hands, _**"I-I doe nott… uhm, thatt ys… pardonne me, goode syr ?"**_

The older man paused and turned back to face him, his skirt twirling around to chase his slim waist's sudden movement, _**"Oh, ande, before you comme ine…"**_ Feliks rose an eyebrow and gave him a rather stern look. The boy felt like doing his chores for some odd reason._**"…lyke, take offe thatte aowful gagge me withe a spoone coat – duh, it's, lyke, soe totalle laste seasone. Yt, lyke… makes you looke alle sketchie and shitte. Uncoole."**_

'_Cool'_? The boy briefly looked up to the skies and noted the weather.

"_**Um… f-fromme what I gather, witche… you baked som pye? Apple pye?"**_

"_**For sur, thy goode sonn. Lyke, wa~y."**_

After a silent moment of pause between the two, when Feliks could practically see the gears turning in the boy's head, the young man dropped his father's musket near the doorway and gave him a shy grin, _**"Well... alle righte."**_

Feliks had indeed foreseen many lives happen before people - both mortals and immortals - had actually lived it. The future. His future. This boy's future.

And he had foreseen the end of the world.

He smirked.

"_**Bitchin'."**_

*****

Francis' real name was not actually _'Francis'_. For both angels and demons alike, their names were mostly pronounced with either a cacophony of growls, squeals, curdles, croons, and a bit of purring. But mostly it was impossible for humans to pronounce their names correctly, as it required a divine tongue to create the beautiful, yet awfully delicate sound of two tigers trying to off each other while humping a tree hole at the same time. Just a little bit of a squee here, a minute of a soft wheeze there, and ending the human equivalent of a letter with an _'uoomph'_.

No, our demon Francis' real name was _Vboehnneyfoiuee_ (4).

Francis adopted his human name in remembrance of one of his mortal students, _Donatien Alphonse Francois de Sade_, or Marquis (sometimes Comte) de Sade, who had lived around in the 18th-19th century; prosecuted for his great genius and imaginations (the man was the type of genius who could paint a picture with his own loins), and had later on been forced to become caged within his own mind. Francis was Sade's personal teacher who, at times, would appear during his dreams or whenever he went raving mad. The demon was for Sade what a child would usually call their 'imaginary friend'. After he died, Francis, who felt such a great loss that he was compelled to honor his student's name forever, practically molded the word 'sadistic' from the deceased Marquis, and later on saved the man's literature, forcing the fates to let it become published afterwards. Which earned him a commendation in hell. And since Marquis de Sade was born in France, he named himself Francis, and claimed the country _France_ as his own home.

But demons… devils; the evil beings of both night and day, hidden under shadow; masters of all that is sin and temptation… well, they were not supposed to feel personal connections. What was so 'personal' about demons, anyway? Demons weren't allowed to feel anything but amusement and a slight emotion of curiosity towards the lesser mortals - and it was mostly a kind of curiosity that pushes young boys to poke sticks or other sharp objects through an ant farm's entrance hole, and then trample on it later on with glee. Maybe set the scuttling ants on gasoline and then light it afire while laughing manically. That kind of curiosity.

These were the thoughts that were currently going on through Duke Ludwig's mind at the moment while his assistant, Feliciano, was sitting slack on the dirty ground against a tombstone of the graveyard, muttering about something or other.

Bonnefoy was certainly an oddball demon. It was fair enough that he used to be considered as an incubus (in fact, Francis personally coined the name using a cube of sugar and a really big orgy), and popularized the whole _'demons should feel pleasure since they're already in hell anyway'_ trend on the very first day of their jobs in Hell.

No, Ludwig was a traditional type of demon. One who focused more on making mortals sin and go to hell for their daily torture instead of letting himself indulge in sin through work. He believed in a little something called a demon's _dignity_ and _honor_, and while those terms were mostly given to heroic saints, Ludwig's 'dignity' and 'honor' were more on taking pleasure on a day's job well done.

His work consisted of finishing a nice, graphed, and detailed list upon which mortal goes on what type of torment for the whole month (he especially liked the one with the whips, dogs, and chocolate muffin cake area of torture), acting as a messenger to spread the name of evil towards the demons-on-the-field (or on Earth), and dragging back the tortured souls who managed to escape hell's infallible armed security guards, hell's ancient old gate, and Cerberus, their three belled mechanical alarm system with a screech that could curdle a wig, complete with one trillion video feeds, and a nice red flashing light that went _'weeoooweeooo'_.

In truth, and Ludwig would deny this fact - this Duke was not actually evil. He was just precise. A precise demon who thought jobs in hell had fuller satisfaction (and graphs, he liked those) than the jobs in heaven.

Bonnefoy's fashionably late nature was not doing well on his temper, too, especially when his partner of fifty years - a felled angel named Feliciano (5) – was currently whining about pasta. And a getting a tomato for the road.

"_Pasta_… Ludwig… when was the last time we had pasta?"

"It was just five hours ago, Feliciano. Control yourself." Ludwig said, gritting his teeth and trying to take his own advice for himself.

"Ludwig, I want some pasta~"

"We will leave this place and go to a nice human restaurant if Bonneyfoy does not arrive within-" Ludwig took a slight, brisk peek of his rusty wristwatch and 'hmphed', "Four minutes and twenty seconds." (6)

"It's been so long since I actually went to a human restaurant," Feliciano said, his voice laden with a tone of awe and sheer anticipation, "Why are we waiting for him anyway, Ludwig?"

"You know that little human child you forgot to take with you when you moved to this spot?"

Feliciano nodded, not perturbed that the child was quietly sniffling a few feet away from them after a nice, satisfying cry, "Mhmm?"

Ludwig counted to ten and inhaled, "Feliciano."

"Is it five minutes yet?"

"Get. The. Boy."

Feliciano rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and yawned. Ludwig denied it looked cute. He was too pissed off to think about cute.

"Bonnefoy might or might not arrive, and we cannot forget our charge." he said, in a calmer way this time.

When his partner came back with a basket full of something that kept sniffling and crooning, both demons noted a light that shone through the dark, foggy night. They looked ahead and saw Bonnefoy's Renault cut through the thick fog as if it were a very sharp fan.

"That flash…" Ludwig scoffed, fishing for another word; a stronger word, but all he could remember were the curses soldiers in World War II sometimes used, "_Das Schwein._"

"Ludwig, where're the horses that usually pull the carriage?"

"It's something new. I think I remember one of our scouts' report calling it an… _oto-moe-beel_."

When Bonnefoy finally arrived, stepped out of his car, and dared show his face to Ludwig - he received a nice, hard punch on the nose. Francis stumbled against his car door, but quickly righted himself from dizziness before Ludwig got lucky enough to land a hit on him again. His anticipation was useless, though, since Ludwig was just staring at him with those steely blue eyes of his, his mouth set in a thin line; a perfect statue very much akin to an angry, more masculine David. With an eye twitching problem.

Francis Bonnefoy was the kind of demon that Ludwig liked to call _'one that had gone local'_. He had the same bright colored hair as Ludwig, wore expensive suits and shoes from France, had an impressive jaw line, dusted with a bit of stubble, and he sometimes spoke in French, if that fact wasn't already established in the earlier chapter. If one would look at him you would think of those bohemians who thrived in eccentricity (7). In terms of looks, Francis adopted the sloppy look, what with his shirt tucked out in all the odd places, his tie missing, and his suit jacket wrinkled in some areas -but he could strangely pull the style off with great success.

"You're late." Ludwig said.

Francis merely smiled and waved the other demon's hostility off, "You called, your deviousness?"

"Enough with the false charm, _Bonnefoy_." Francis' shoulder tensed, his sudden anger rolling in waves, for some reason, that you could smell his expensive cologne boiling a mile away, "You're two hours late, and even if it is fitting for another one of our asinine superiors on how demons of hell are supposed to behave," Ludwig held himself straighter (if that was even possible) and stared down at Francis, which reminded the latter of a drill sergeant who never knew of the word 'comedy', "I cannot tolerate lateness."

"Oh come now, Ludwig, let this mistake go _si'l vous plait_. I was having a meeting with one of my business partners." Francis righted his suit in emphasis, "Work work work. Knowing you, I'm guessing that it won't be hard for you to understand…"

"You've just done a violation against our orders, Bonnefoy" a violation which, Ludwig briefly noted, must have been tossed aside by Bernard.

Francis sagged, looking as if he wanted to snap someone's pencil in half and laugh at their disappointed look. He should have known better than to go against this particular Duke of Hell. When it came to obeying and disobeying a demon superior from hell, a duke especially, most of them tolerated almost all acts of mischief and evil thrown against them as long as the job gets done, and they could behead/slice off/skewer the offending demon in retribution. Ludwig was too tight-assed about following everything according to plan. Despite envying the man's lower bits, he made him pissed as, well - pissed as _hell_ whenever they were brought together for work purposes _(aka. every time they met)_.

Feliciano tugged Ludwig's sleeve in a meek manner and said something that Francis thought sounded a bit like 'five minutes'. Ludwig clearly deflated and, growling, he took the small basket Feliciano was holding in his arms and motioned a finger on it.

"_You _were assigned by our lord Satan, for some reason, to look after this child. You know what this-" Ludwig shook the basket, hoping that it would make things quicker, "-means, and I trust that you would follow everything to the letter, Bonnefoy."

There he goes again. The _nerve_.

"_Monsieur _Bonnefoy. _Mister _Bonnefoy._ Sir Bon bon_, or call it what you must!" Francis bristled, "But my first name is Francis. You could say 'Francis'. Pronounce 'Francis'. _It's even easier to say than Bonnefoy_."

Ludwig rolled his eyes and stopped himself from tearing his hair off, "Are you still on with that ridiculous--?" he snorted, quickly forgetting the responsibility at hand, "You must stop acting like a human and stick to protocol. You are allowed to indulge, but obedience, Bonnefoy, is important. You are in a violation!"

"Oh, mon superiur," Francis purred, raising a finger in the air as if he was making an important point in court (which he was), "You have forgotten that the particular law that forbids being fashionably late was written off."

"Any right-faced, respected demon of hell knows-"

"Violation 8-77-2-444-9. Cleared off by Baphomet… or Tino, as he likes to call himself now after hearing that knock knock joke. Keep your head above your paperwork, seigneur."

"You're also talking," the other seethed, "French."

"I live in France therefore I _am_ French." He didn't 'steal' the paperwork for staying in France just for the kicks, you know, he _had_ been on Earth ever since its Creation. Old coots like Ludwig never would understand, he thought.

"_You_…" This was the point when Ludwig said something in their native demonic tongue, one which had Francis gaping at him as if he was just slapped with a smelly fish, "And you're hopeless."

"You ate pasta!"

A large space of silence happened between the three. The baby who was still in the basket sniffled and waved an arm and attempted to squeeze his little fingers around Ludwig's sleeves. In the background, a dog stopped nosing the dirt and looked at the scenario with confusion.

"I can smell it on your clothes." Feliciano moved to sniff Francis' collar, but was stopped by Ludwig's large hand on his shoulder.

"Enough of this!" Remembering his yoga lessons (of the hellish kind), the larger demon counted up to ten seconds of silence and then pushed the basket against Francis' chest, "Forget recounting the deeds of the day. Here. You know what to do with it."

Francis pushed the pink and green quilt the little wiggling human was covered in and raised an eyebrow, "_Qui est ce_… err… who's this?"

"It's the baby that's going to end the world." Feliciano smiled, tugging Ludwig's arm and motioning for them to leave the graveyard, "Where do you eat pasta, Bonnefoy?" he asked, one head tilting to his side.

Unfortunately, Francis was too shocked to say or do anything but stare at the little, bright-eyed baby in absolute horror.

Twenty minutes of fumbling, signing some paperwork, and even more fumbling, Francis started his Renault, gave the place where Ludwig and Feliciano had disappeared in fiery flames from (probably to an Italian restaurant of some sort which served potatoes) a middle finger, and drove off. He drummed his fingers on the car wheel in a nervous manner and looked at the child in the backseat, not caring that he was currently going over a hundred in the fast lane without looking at the road. The cause of Armageddon, the dread Dragon of the Deep, was sound asleep. His short brown hair ruffled from the warm quilt about him. Francis blearily turned back on the road and bit the tip of his thumb.

"Oh no." he muttered, "No no no. No more empty canvases to tempt, no more potential angels to seduce, no more fine dining, no more designer clothes…"

… and no more fun. It made no difference for him if either side won. It would all change and go back to normal - him working his dreary duties in hell, and Arthur doing his Principality duties and tea drinking in heaven. And, he thought, if the side of darkness won he would probably be stuck on skewering duty since his sole talent of making people sin would be useless by then. If heaven won – he would probably fill the roster for cleaning duty. Because try as he might, making demons do something sinful was near impossible since they would be doing it already. No, he knew that everything would be as boring as the 14th century once _the end_ happened.

The ticking time bomb, the one that would lead them to eternal victory (or loss) yawned in the back-seat.

Well… maybe he could just leave the baby somewhere.

FRANCIS.

Or not.

DO YOU HAVE HIM?

"Er- oui. Oui, seigneur, I have him." He gulped, "I mean, I have Him. _Him_."

DID LUDWIG TELL YOU WHERE TO DROP OFF THE CHILD?

'Drop off' really did sound tempting right now…

"Oui. Yes. Seigneur."

I TRUST THAT YOU SHALL DO EXACTLY WHAT YOUR DUKE TOLD YOU TO.

"I..." he sighed, giving up and admitting that he was too much of a coward to face hell's grand court and the difficulty of choosing one over a million lawyers in hell, "Will not fail you."

Out of spite, Francis corrupted a few stop signs behind him and took pleasure in the amount of rage and car crashes that he could see from his rear-view mirror.

There was only one person that he could talk to about this horrible shortcoming, Francis thought. But he had to drop the baby off to the hospital first, where an anxious father (8) of a newborn healthy _Spawn of Satan_ was waiting.

* * *

**Notes****:**

(1) _Although for some reason, people keep thinking that Death uses a scythe. In fact, in the BEGINNING, Death had requested that he use a scythe instead of a sword. The rest of the horsemen thought this unfair, however (since they _all_ voted on swords), and pleaded that either they all use a scythe, or Death stick to the agreed protocol and use a sword. Scythes were quite difficult and expensive to build during those days, and Ivan (then spelled Yiechvauoghne) the Metatron was close to ending the world at an early date._

_This was forever known as the day when God kneaded his forehead because of a slight headache._

_(2) It was impossible to aim towards someone who knew where the stones would fly and fall, of course, and the men with the pitchforks and muskets were a bit ruffled after Feliks scolded them for being four seconds late in their attempt to gut him)._

_(3) Feliks' speech is a blend between ye olde english or so, its basis from the original 'Good Omens' novel and so on and so so, and Feliks' usual valley girl accent. His dialogue, and the boy's, are as follows:_

_"Like, you must be totally spent from all those UVs, dude."_

_"Had you not heard me at all, witch? I said:"_

_"And... oh. My. God. Lyke, it's totally hot out here. Quit spazzin for a sec and, like, get in the house or something... 'cause I, like, totally fixed you up some mondo awesome apple pie. For reals... you'd, like, totally love it. I, like, almost scarfed it all down myself, y'know... but I was like, 'That poor kid'. And, like... I totally felt so sure that you'd dig my cooking. Oh my God. You'd absolutely. Mondo. Love it~"_

_"I-I do not... uhm, that is... pardon me, good sir?"_

_"Oh, and before you come in... like, take off that awful gag me with a spoon coat - duh, it's, like, so totally last season. It, like... makes you look all sketchie and shit. Uncool."_

_"Um... f-from what I gather, witch... you baked some pie? Apple pie?"_

_"For sure. Like, waaay."_

_"Well... all right."_

_"Bitchin'"_

_(4) Demons took great pride in the way humans might spell their names, thinking its complexity as a sign of something great, dark, and foreboding. Terrifying names with a lot of u's, i's, z's, e's, and v's. However, for the sake of the reader's sanity - the characters from hell and heaven will only be named with the simpler, more sensible version of their names. Therefore: Lhuudviwighe will be known as Ludwig; Fvelliscieeannious will be known as Feliciano; and Vbohnneyfoiuee will be known as Bonnefoy henceforth._

_Angels are not supposed to be prideful, so they just take their names in a modest stride. Arthur (or Aartheeiuhhre), however, thinks his 'real' name as an embarrassment with the same intensity a son would feel after being named 'Sue', as his real name sounded like a pair old men running down a hill._

_(5) This angel fell because of a vice he became addicted to. One can only guess what vice Feliciano willingly fell into hell for._

_(6) Although they could let a bowl of pasta appear right before their eyes, Feliciano wanted his first meal of real pasta – after a whole century of eating the hearts of television heretics that was lightly covered in ravioli – to be special. It was some really intense paperwork they had to go through. _

_(7) One of the better ideas of Francis who thought that some people having run-ins with the law and creating a bit of a tussle here and there, although he didn't expect the term 'unconventionality' would also birth Hippies._

_  
__(8) Francis thought Feliciano told him that the mortal father, handpicked by Satan himself, was an American politican who was currently on business meeting with his mobile phone to settle his jittering nerves._


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Buggered Omens – Part I of Chapter III  
**Author:** The Alchemist of Bing  
**Rating:** T  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Germany, mentions of North Italy, France, England, a mysterious Hetalia character that is revealed in the story, and a baby whose identity I will reveal later on; slight (or nonexistent) and England/France  
**Warnings:** Theological theme involving angels, demons, and God (this is all done for the sake of good humor, staying loyal to the style of Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Gaiman); mentions of burning hospitals, threatening of old ladies, slight drunkenness, profanity, and Francis attempting to bed Arthur. again.

**A/N:** Who in the world did I choose for Beelzebub? Ho~boy.

* * *

**Part III**

_(Of which the Lord of the Flies is introduced, Arthur's dark side shows, Francis is a drama queen, and they both get_ slightly _drunk around the shop this time. Oh, and he shit hits the fan, for lack of a better, and stronger term.)_

_

* * *

  
_

It was early in the morning, one o'clock after midnight, and it was still quite dark outside.

Bonnefoy had followed his job to the letter after all, which was a big surprise when he thought about it without balancing his head on the floor. Ludwig looked at the burning hospital before him and nodded to himself, patting his back for another job well done. The records were destroyed from the fire, all traces and evidence of the evil they had done were gone and had just turned into dust. The rest was Francis' job now, he thought, dreading the outcome. Ludwig had just come back from dropping Feliciano off to their office in hell to perform the rest of the final deed, thankful that the Plan so far was going on smoothly and was nearing its completion.

Dinner earlier had been quite interesting, and it had been so long ever since he had sausages and potatoes like those before. Best sausages he ever had ever since he stayed on earth during the whole World War II business and he had been tempted to taste the strange dish. Briefly, Ludwig wondered what would happen when Feliciano loses the pleasure of human restaurants with their violins and their romantic atmosphere and lovely couples and… especially, their pasta. He never thought the Italian dish would act as a sort of strange opium to fallen angels with the way the smaller man sniffed it all in one go. The way Feliciano ate his pasta was… well, it should have killed him if he were human.

Leading the humans to their end was nothing personal, and planning it himself while making sure everything was going perfectly did not mean that he hated humans. Far from it, in fact, but Ludwig couldn't help but feel sorry that all this would come to an end. He chanced a look at a closed shop as he walked down the sidewalk and noted a couple of mannequins doing silly poses. He had to admit that humans were an odd bunch, though. Ludwing hummed thoughtfully and continued his way.

A slight droning of a million wings echoed in a nearby alleyway that he was just passing through, and only stopped when a fluttering coat seemed to cover the ancient, hellish murmurs of insects into silence. Everywhere, hell hot fireflies fluttered and burned anything they touched, "The job done?" a voice asked, deep into the dark.

"I did just as our lord commanded," Ludwig bowed briefly at the man-shaped being that had just appeared, "Beelzebub."

* * *

Arthur was not in a good mood. He hadn't been in a good mood for a while ever since his fellow demon companion had been absent for a whole day already, and it was not even the demon's so called 'nap time' which was scheduled every Friday to Saturday. Today was a Monday. He was bored out of his mind, and the old woman in his shop sticking her nose all over his precious collection of books was not making things easier. Arthur squirmed. If she even dared touch one of his cookbooks she had another thing coming.

The angel's bookshop did not house mere common books, nor were they just hand-me-down copies written by Shakespeare, Dante Alighieri, Oscar Wilde, or many different kinds and versions of Bibles that had accumulated over the centuries of mankind. They were not bought out of curiosity or without purpose, they were not collected for the sake of collecting, and they were not sold over for the sake of earning money he did not need. They were there so that Arthur could keep a close eye on them. Bad choice for pretending to be a book dealer, he thought, he should have learned that forcing himself to do good was not the right way to do things.

These books were, for instance (referring to Arthur's proud list): the first copied text from the Emerald Tablet of Hermes during the alchemy craze back in the day, the Vedas text from ancient India, the first copied scripts of Gilgamesh, Oscar Wilde's first editions, and a rather nice old cookbook of Roman Recipes called _'De Re Coquinaria'_ by Marcus Gavius which lead back to 4thcentury Rome (Arthur was rather fond of the _In Ovis Apalis_ recipe), to name a few (1). And Arthur, who took pride in his contribution to the Bible and thus worked to collect all the unique copies of Bibles himself (even if Emperor Constantine acted as chief editor of plagiarism over his hard work), had a complete collection of the _Bible Errata_ – a series of Bibles unwanted because of some embarrassing printing mistakes made back in the day when printers were patient men stuck 'printing' everything word for word with their quills. These printing mistakes held titles such as the _Adulterous_ _Bible_, the _Lions_ _Bible_ (Francis was a bit fond of this Bible, along with the _Sin On Bible_), and the sillier _Bug_ _Bible_. (2)

His books were all suspended in time. Well preserved and just a bit brown and crackled around the edges with bits of blots that looked like coffee stains in some parts (Francis' fault, obviously), but yes: Arthur had the _original_ copies. Although most of his collection tended to not have been published before they were taken by him, instead these were _kinda borrowed_ straight from their writers' desks, the original copies replaced by an exact, miracled, duplicate. Therefore you could imagine the amount of passion he felt for his job as a book dealer after all that hard work.

The Metatron, however, would have been displeased to hear that he was not sharing the knowledge that angels were supposed to do. Not to mention if he found out about his penchant for stealing valuable books from their rightful owners. Hoarding material properties was a no-no under the heavenly eyes of good and the Voice of God's terrifying rusty pipeline. (3)

Unfortunately for Arthur, the woman he was setting his glower upon coughed through the dust, ignored the large mound of rubbish which had appeared on one corner of the store out of nowhere, disregarded all the bats that darted over her head and the rats that had tried to take a nip out of her fingers in the shelves, and smiled over his homemade pastries that sat by the desk which, Arthur refused to admit, acted well when it came to repelling potential customers (some people did try his cooking out, and he enjoyed their reactions immensely, even if most of them gagged after a bite). However, adding more salt to the wound, the woman merely pocketed the questionable pastry dish, which looked like a piece of messed up hors d'oeuvres of cement, dirt and twigs instead of trying it out when she thought he wasn't looking.

Arthur did not want her to buy one of his books, but he was a _gentleman_. A gentleman was always kind, polite, and must have infinite patience over things that vex them. Such as old ladies going through their precious books. Other than fancying himself a true gentleman, he was also an angel who was one of the most influential representatives of good on this earth – therefore Arthur was obligated to just skive it off and sell the lady one of his blasted books, be damned his hard work! She was an _old woman_. What was a gentleman angel to do?

The woman, a lady named Mrs. Flemyng, puffed and placed a heavy book rough and hard on his cashier desk, letting the dust fly everywhere. Arthur stiffened and forced a kind smile on his tight face, "Found a good book, madam?" he squeaked.

She smiled back at him and said, "Oh, I believe this'll be perfect for my granddaughter, Mr. Kirkland. Perfect for her work, I should say…"

Work? What sort of work did she possibly…

"I really am quite sorry, madam," Arthur said, as he forced his rage down his gut and wished to have it gone forever, "But I hardly think that this book is suitable for children of your granddaughter's age to read." _And drool on_, he thought. He pretended to clean one of his nails with a thumb in disinterest, but when one feels their brain doing nice little explosions in their skull it was bound to give them a nasty headache. Most people presumed that angels never had headaches, but angels never had any of their collection of books violated before, "Well, how about this book here, Mrs. Flemyng?" he pulled a book from under his desk with a flourish and tried to look innocent, "_The Sunneshayn in Russia's_… er,"

The woman squinted over the book, "Ha-Harym?"

"That's right," Arthur nodded and let out a nervous laugh, his fingers doing awkward dances over the book as if he had no idea what to do with it (although hitting her in the head with the leather-bound didn't sound too dark), "It does sound kind of different, but it's not what you're thinking at all. Bloody old English this is, eh?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, but I don't think that sort of paper is good for a collage… er… material?" Mrs. Flemyng said, trying to look positive and not horrified at the prospect of giving her own flesh and blood a book about Harems and Russia, "She's actually older than you think. She's fourteen, you know." he nodded again, reminding himself that, yes, he was an angel, and yes, he loved all beings young and old, _damn it_…

"Well I'm afraid you can't have this book, Mrs. Flemyng, or I shall be forced to pull your bloody spine out of your maw and chop your blithering head off. Put it in a bleedin' stake in front of my shop after renaming Soho's most respected businesses into _Vlad the Impaler's Rare Book Shop of Doom_. You lot are all the same – disrespectful bloody bints. What do you think I am, eh? I'm not just some wanker who sells books for brats to… to…"

Arthur inhaled deep and relaxed his pale fist that he had been squeezing too hard. He imagined Francis stuck in heaven, suffering, and suddenly he felt much better. He met Mrs. Flemyng's shocked expression with her eyes wide, almost popping from her head, and smiled, "Thank you for shopping at Vla-_Kirkland's Rare Book Shop_! Have a nice day, madam." The woman's face went back to normal and smiled back at him as if nothing had happened, thanked him, gave his cooking a nice compliment, and gave the brown bag which held _The Sunneshayn in Russia's Harym_ a nice little squeeze.

Arthur banged his head on the desk, and sighed.

Erasing human memories were one of the best advantages of being an angel, aside from forcing himself sober after a hard night of drinks, and missing all those dreaded hangovers everybody hated so much.

One of these advantages was the freedom and opportunity to observe mortals and their phenomenal existence for thousands of years. It allowed both Arthur and Francis to reach a level of understanding for humans and how they tick. And once, during an interesting conversation during the 60s, they had finally concluded that human beings were delightful in their way of striving to be unique and imaginative with their everyday life. To change and create instead of following the same earthly instincts animals usually adhered to for their survival. Their _ineffable_ nature, Arthur had once said to Francis, made them free to decide for themselves the hand they would choose to take when their end finally came: either they would take his hand or, God willing, Francis'.

As of now, his companion's absence made him uneasy and stressed. Arthur would never admit it, but knowing the demon for a millennia and losing him the next threatened the pace of his everyday existence. What would he do if Francis was forced to go back into hell to attend to his duties there after another disagreement with Duke Ludwig as punishment? Another demon might take over his place, and it might end up as a repeat of the Hundred Years War all over again. The unpleasant notion made him queasy.

Arthur walked to the back of his bookshop where a cozy sitting room had a warm light dancing in its fireplace. A table, a couple of chairs, and a little, elaborate cabinet on one side which held copious amounts of alcohol (despite the angel's protestations that he had any alcohol in his own home) where it was originally for storing expensive china, tea cups, and silver. Arthur also had a second floor in his bookshop, but he really did not need any sleep. The angel settled on a comfortable chair and began to embroider a large, pink flower with his deft fingers – a little hobby of his which helped him pass the time after he realized that yoga was definitely not for him.

In truth, Francis was not the first demon he had butted heads with. The first demon and the original representative of hell on this earth had been an oddly cheerful yet naïve demon named Antonio. Francis told him that he was on earth during those days, having fun with the delights of the mortal flesh and escaping from his hellish duties in favor of having fun 'up here'. Every day was like a box of chocolates, he had said, and Arthur rolled his eyes at that and called him a lazy bugger.

The angel had never found it difficult to antagonize the demon Antonio at all, since the idiot was easy to rattle, and he remembered that he had fun battling against him during the Spanish Inquisition. After chasing each other all over the seas and influencing the minds of the sailors who all travelled to spread the name of Christianity for mixed reasons, either to lob off heads of heretics or to truly make them clean in the eyes of the Lord, both angel and demon had finally ended their battle with a rather brutal tomato fight.

Picture this: two ships sailing side by side, both captains were comrades, of course, and the men between these ships got along quite well. All the provisions these sailors had were tomatoes and spices, collected over the duration of their travels. But no matter how friendly the men were with each other, Antonio was still astride ship A, while Arthur rode on ship B. The angel remembered that it was Antonio who threw the first tomato at him, but he had been the true aggressor this time since it was Antonio who commented on how tasteless his long hair had looked like.

It all ended in tears.

On Antonio's side, of course, since Arthur never cried. Not at all.

Apparently, when Arthur bothered Antonio for a quick talk to find out what was wrong, the demon explained that he was missing one of his comrades from Down There and had wanted to come back home after centuries of working his back hard to the bone (and getting beaten up by a Principality because of it). A few days later, Francis had taken over Antonio's job with the other gleefully skipped back down to hell.

Francis had been the worse thing that had ever happened to Arthur.

After getting used to the easy and laid back ways of Antonio, Francis had been a challenge. It wasn't because he was brilliant or smart or cunning, by jove far from it – it was because Francis enjoyed his work and he never hesitated to stick a foot in a pool full of sharks. The bastard loved fishing in troubled waters, and he had excellent practice tempting people to do whatever he wanted them to act upon (to him while he was flat on his back), and Francis was glad to get a bit of a promotion from his occupation as an incubus. He had understood, and studied very well, the seven vices mortals were capable of committing. Arthur snorted, well at least Francis had been hell before the whole business with the Arrangement happened. Well, less of an annoyance anyway.

A series of knocking invaded his thoughts and had Arthur fleeing to his back door. Before he opened it, however, he made sure that he did not have a look of desperation on his face before straightening his vest and tie. When he opened the door, Francis was on the other side with a bottle of half-empty vodka in his right hand, looking messier than usual. Arthur sized him up, looking at the demon up and down and wondering if Francis had a small accident with the car and the lube again.

"You look like shit." Arthur eyed the sniffling (sniffling?) demon before he motioned for him to come in.

Francis tromped inside through his door and moaned: "Arthur… _mon ange_…"

"What is it now, drunk bastard? You've been gone for a whole day and it wasn't even your nap time."

Francis collapsed on one of his comfy looking chairs in front of the fireplace and put the back of his free hand on his forehead dramatically, "This is horrible."

"What's horrible?"

"It is unthinkable! Impossible! It cannot be! _Fils de pute_, _mon ange_, do you know what this means?"

"What in Chri- your name are you talking about now?" Arthur pressed, crossing his arms in front of him, "Stop it with all this drama queen business and get on with it."

But Francis, drunk over his head, thought it a great idea to give his one and only friend and kitten a tight hug. Arthur almost fell off his chair but was pulled further into Francis' arms before his knees hit the floor, "Oh, mon ange… _mon_ _coeur_… _mon sweet cheri_…"

"For hell's sakes, Francis…" Arthur sputtered. He clawed Francis' chest and tried to bite the arm that settled over his shoulders, "What the bloody… _get off_!" The angel moved to knee his gut, but he had to push Francis' slobbering face out of his first, "What the hell, you bloody wanker, stop trying to… _oi_." He finally managed to push Francis off him and was glad to see the idiot sprawled all over his floor. Arthur quickly stood up and pressed a shiny shoe on Francis' crotch. Hard. This slight physical display was an unspoken threat that Arthur had effectively used many times before after he realized that the demon's jewels were his most prized possessions. He took pleasure in the demon's yowl of pain.

"Don't you… I can't possibly," the demon tore his glasses off his face and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, "It's about the antichrist."

"What about the antichrist? I thought that the whole antichrist arrangement was due after another thousand years?"

"Oh they were lying, mon ange, they're _demons_," Francis scoffed, "I was the one who delivered the child, Arthur. The antichrist himself. Ah non, this isn't happening..."

"All right, I get it," Arthur growled and took his foot off Francis' crotch, sitting down while he let the news sink in, "Are you telling me that…"

Francis stood up and gesticulated, spitting froth and vodka everywhere, "The end of the world! Armeggadon! With the trumpets and the horses and the one big crowd that does not compare to the one in Woodstock…"

While Francis tried to calm his nerves by pacing all over the floor, Arthur's face went blank and empty, hands limp on his knees, although he was nodding automatically in a strange sort of way, "Well, that's good, innit?" he finally said, "I- I… I mean we were working hard for the sake of the end _End_ weren't we? We weren't just… just…" they both looked at each other, both of them thinking the same thing no matter how much Arthur detested it.

Damn.

"I mean this was already bound to happen." Arthur said, although he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself instead, "We knew that it was going to happen eventually… right?"

"Are you saying that we should just let _this_ happen?"

"Well what are we supposed to do about it? Wouldn't it be nice for you to go back to hell and partake in some sinning, torturing, and furniture making or whatever demons like you love to do?"

"I don't just enjoy the fine sins of the flesh, mon ange." Francis took another drink from the bottle, "I happen to find comfort in the fact that I'd be able to sleep in silk sheets that do not turn into a large bonfire and eat food that doesn't taste like fried politician dipped in sulphur sauce."

Arthur shrugged and flipped a careless hand. After all, the end didn't sound too bad. That meant he wouldn't see this bastard demon anymore, at least. That's right, he thought, that was a good thing. "You're just exaggerating. This is how things were supposed to be in the first place. Why should we interfere?"

"Do you think that you'd be able to eat your English dishes when your angel buddies drop in on Earth and force everybody to sing _'Ah Halleluja'_? I'd bet you a thousand marks that they'd think pickled eggs were made by Satan himself."

"I happen to like pickled eggs. I think they're heavenly."

"Oh, and you were so sure that you weren't going to fall."

"Look," Arthur stood and took the bottle of vodka from the demon's hand sharply, "Even if we did try to do anything it'd be futile. This is God's will and the End – the last battle between Heaven and Hell – will not stop for two blokes like us. I say it's better to just let it happen." Arthur moved to tip the bottle in his mouth.

"There's no alcohol in heaven."

He stopped. Mouth inches away from the sweet scent of impending intoxication.

"No cookbooks, no unicorns, no embroideries…"

"Francis, stop it." Arthur snarled, almost letting the bottle of alcohol fall from his shaking hands.

"No tea, no Bosch. It'll be just like - vacation's over time, mon ange. No more fun. No more funny businesses, no more dinners... no more _books._"

The angel faltered, and he paused for a while.

"… well... shit."

Francis, deep in his blackened demon heart, knew that there was no way the angel could cope with a bunch of blundering goodie-goodies who were constantly sober. If there was one thing that Francis prided himself over, it was successfully turning the angel into an experienced drunkard. He just had to find the core of the angel's vices. The killing blow, if you will…

Arthur took a long, desperate swig of vodka as if it would dull the panic he felt settling in.

"Think about this, mon ange –" Francis put an arm over the angel's shoulder and spread his other arm wide, "A bird of eternity flies out into space…"

"Francis. We bloody can't go against God's will."

"Every eternity, Arthur, it flies right into there… far away. Space… sharpen its beak and all that."

"Well… bloody big effort to sharpen a beak." Arthur said, his face blank.

"It's the ineffable bit, right, mon ange? _Merde_, do you not get it? The child is just like any other human baby…"

"Yes, other than him having the powers that could call upon the Kraken, force men to dig underground until their backs break, ask birds to fly backwards… make it rain fishes and turn the seas bloody or whatever…"

"He's still just an empty canvas full of infinite possibility!"

"You're waxing poetic again. Get to the bloody point."

"I'm talking about our arrangement, _mon chaton_. The anti-christ, aside from all those things with the birds and the seas, also has _free-will_."

The angel snorted, "Free will? When did free-will get into this mess anywa—?" Arthur paused. He looked at Francis, an angelic hue gradually lighting his eyes, "Are you telling me that we could influence the little snot to not end the world?"

Francis laughed, looking as if he had all the answers in the world, "If he loves it like we do, then why should he end it? It's my job to add in a little bit of hate... and it is, by default, your job to stop me from corrupting a newborn soul. No matter the parentage, it's still just a _baby_."

"What if the authorities Up there and Down there find out about our little scheme?"

"It's still a job, mon ange~" Francis said, "It's a wile… I am about to do something extremely evil, and when I do… when I do…" he blanked out, "What was that word again?"

Arthur grinned, elated at the prospect that was suddenly opening up to him, "_You_, you bastard - you wile," he stuttered, "You wile and I thwart."

"_Exactement_."

"It's just me doing my job." Arthur said brightly, "Not exactly angelic to ignore evil in the works, eh?"

"Oui, oui – it's just a matter of thwarting my wiles… to turn the _enfant_ evil and all." Francis said happily, wiping a bit of dust off Arthur's shoulders, "You won't like me to turn the enfant into a genocidal man-child who ends the world. Non?"

"Yeah, I mean _non_. No. 'Course not, bloody demon. I'll turn the kid into a damn angel."

For once, Arthur thought, they were finally agreeing on something.

"Want to have a brief victory tussle between the sheets?"

"Bugger off."

* * *

Plans were, and had always been vulnerable to change. Often there were complications inside and outside the workings of the whole agenda, and most of these complications were unwanted. Well, they were generally unwanted. More so: the people who created these plans made sure to avoid complications at all cost.

The Plan towards Armeggadon was as followed:

1. Send the spawn of all ultimate evil upon earth

2. Replace baby of an American Politician with baby antichrist and make sure baby antichrist was settled in with the American Politician, who was sure to ignore him and give him lots of hate for humanity and all that (dramatic, Hollywood upbringings always did the trick when it came to raising the antichrist)

3. Burn hospital where the whole switch took place to destroy records

4. and finally; Check on baby antichrist for the last time to make sure he was nice and comfortable with his _widdle toesie woesies_.

This was _the_ Plan. This was hell's plan, and therefore it was sure to be foolproof (Duke Ludwig worked on this himself) since hell had been planning for the End for a really long time now. But even if it was the Plan leading to the _Big Finish_, it was just only a Plan.

Because while Francis and Arthur worked on their own plans after they both decided to disrupt the end of the world, something – or someone else – began to do their own magic.

* * *

After Ludwig disappeared from his sight, Beelzebub scoffed and miracled himself inside the charming dark room of his Lord of Darkness, Father of Lies, the Great Angel of the Bottomless Pit…

The whole room was rather distasteful, he thought, looking over the happy smiling faces of sheeps and goats on the wallpaper (goats were good, though) as he trudged over the tiny baby toys which almost covered the whole floor of the baby's room. The fairly large baby's room. The kid had just been born, yet it seemed as if his Lord, the antichrist, was going to be settled in for life… Beelzebub couldn't help but envision the antichrist as a spoiled brat, and thought that it would make the whole 'evil' deal better.

Wait until they buy him a tricycle, he thought dryly. (4)

He made his way to the crib, not caring to be quiet or anything while he tripped in the dark over random baby toy dolls and bottles that were littering the floor, muttering angrily under his breath over how ridiculous the whole mess was.

Unluckily for him, Beelzebub the Lord of the Flies and the great General of Hell (5) hit his knee against a pink rocking horse, tripped over a Dora the Explorer doll, and fell all over the floor next to the crib, "_Chigii_~ fucking bastards."

Beelzebub stood up shakily and looked down at the sleeping baby. Perfectly normal, he thought. Looked alive, too. Breathing in the right places and all. Everything looked normal here. Beelzebub kicked a random squeaky toy against a wall, decided that he wanted to get some tomatoes before he went back to hell. Before he turned his back, however, he remembered that he needed to check something vital, just in case the boss asked – he hmphed in annoyance and turned his head at a rather uncomfortable angle to see if the devil's birthmark at the side of the kid's head was…

… not there. Oh.

Oh shit.

Beelzebub's eye twitched when he realized the damage that had just been made. The boss was not going to be happy about this. And there was only one person to blame. He gritted his teeth, breaking the railing of the child's crib into splinters with his bare hands.

"_That damn, fucking, sonofabitch macho potato bastard!"_

_______________________________

**Notes:**

(1) Boiled eggs

(2) The Bible Errata are actually real, and the Bibles listed thus were the Adulterous Bible, which contained the "Thou shalt commit adultery" mistake, the Lions Bible, with "thy son that shall come forth out of thy lions" instead of _loins_, the Sin On Bible, which has the mistake "Go and sin on more" than the original "Go and sin no more", and the Bug Bible with the mistake "Thou shall not nede be afrayed for eny bugges by night" – where a 'bugge' was not your common bug spelled in old English, but a 'ghost' or a 'spectre'.

(3) The story of the Voice of God's preferred weapon was recorded in the original Bible text in the Genesis chapter before it disappeared from the Bible copies we all know today. It consisted of a strange discourse between an unknown, but obviously important angel (who you now know as the Metatron) to God, and reads thus:

_25 And an angel who hadde witnessed the falle of man from Eden, as the forbidden fruit strayed upon the wormwood of thy fallen snake, appeared before the Lord in light and brilliance_

_26 And kindly sayd: 'O, Lord almighty, youre wisdomme hath showne us the mortal's will to sin and pleasure thyselfe selfishly_

_27 'Although, shall I twist thy face raw fore thy mistake of bringinge more paperwork into thy office and forcing the four horsemen to proceed their gatherings and bring upon a multitude of swords to be brought unto thee?_

_28 'And shalle I come for ye a rusty pipe I hadde takenne fromme the future and hit upon youre heade next?_

_29 Kolkolkolkol.'_

_30 And the angel of the Lord hitte His pate with a rusty pipe._

_31 And the Lord retreated away from thy angel in fear._

It was deemed as an obvious error and was erased from history forever.

(4) In the real movie of The Omens, the child (antichrist) set to injure his mother by knocking her with his tricycle on purpose while she was on a ladder, letting her fall two stories (I think) from their large mansion. Correct me if I'm wrong, of course~

(5) Although nobody knows how this happened, so everyone just presumed that he declared himself thus and it just stuck

* * *

**Edit:** I failed! D: D: I added the fifth footnote above! :D Thank you very much for the heads up, Lacus Spei! Sorry for that *is an idiot* xD Seriously, thanks! I kisses you now, I _kisses _you!

no wait don't run away! D: *flail*


End file.
